


Unforgettable

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Best Man, Breakfast, Brother-Sister Relationships, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Friendship, Hand Feeding, Licking, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Making Love, Memories, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Orgasm, Pet Names, Reichenbach Angst, Rimming, Strawberries, Waiting, Waltzing, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, Wedding Rings, but it's all right, new memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1856143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wedding day has finally arrived. It starts with singing, bathing and a shave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Timetable: Ablutions

**Author's Note:**

> I will add characters and tags as I add chapters. This will cover the whole wedding day, from early rising to the wedding night, so the rating may change later as well.

John woke gently to the morning. To the sensation of loving fingers stroking his cheek and ears and sliding through his hair in a soothing glide. Lips ghosted against his cheek, breath warm, then against his ear, and a deep voice sang low and sweet.

“ _Good morning starshine. The earth says hello. You twinkle above us. We twinkle below_.”

John opened his eyes, which crinkled as he smiled into the changeable, pale eyes that crinkled back at him.

“I refuse to sing any more of that song,” said Sherlock, “The verses are bad enough but the bridge threatens the stability of my cerebellum.”

John only laughed, a huff of happy air. “Can’t have that, can we? London’s criminal underworld would run amok.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. London’s criminal underworld lacks the imagination for anything as grand as ‘amok’ these days.”

“Lazy bastards.”

“Yes. Perhaps they’ll have lifted their game before we return from Spain.”

“We can but hope.”

Sherlock grimaced his expectation of disappointment in that quarter, then, with his fingers now trailing down John’s shoulder, he leaned over to bump noses with his soon-to-be-husband. “ _Good morning, how are you, it’s nice to see your face_ ,” he sang softly, “ _You’re the only one that I would e-e-e-e-ever love._ ” One hand trailed over shoulder, bicep, down the length of John’s arm until their hands clasped, while the other brushed through the hair at John’s temple.

“I don’t know that one,” whispered John, captivated.

“I googled it this morning. An Australian one hit wonder. You haven’t cornered the market on appallingly sentimental love songs, John. I think you broke my brain.”

“Sorry, honeybee.”

“Forgiven. You have an amnesty for today only.”

Sherlock leaned over to press his lips to John’s and they enjoyed a long, soft, simple kiss. At least until Sherlock broke contact and tore all the blankets away, exposing semi-naked John to the morning air without warning. “Up you get, then. It’s six a.m. and we have a timetable to keep. Bathroom. Two minutes.”

Then he took off, shedding pyjama pants, t-shirt, dressing gown as he went.

John scrambled out of bed and followed him, hopping out of his pyjama pants and trying not to fall over. Sherlock was already in the shower when he arrived, so he used the loo, washed his hands and prepared to start shaving to make the most of the time until Sherlock was done.

Sherlock shoved the shower curtain aside and beckoned to John. “No, no. That’s next. In here, John.”

“You’re wearing it!”

Sherlock was indeed wearing the shower cap John had bought him as a joke. Bright yellow, decorated with bees, to keep his hair dry.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ve been up for two hours already. We don’t have enough time for me to dry my hair _again_ before Lestrade and Stamford arrive at eight.”

“So why the second shower?” John asked as he stepped under the cascading water with his fiancé.

“I have a plan for the morning,” explained Sherlock, guiding John under the spray to soak his hair. “Bathe first. Shave. Breakfast. Dress. Lestrade and Stamford arrive. Go in separate cars to the gardens. Get married.”

“Live happily ever after?”

“Idiot,” said Sherlock affectionately, lathering shampoo into John’s hair.

John closed his eyes and enjoyed the uncommon (though not unique) experience of being at the receiving end of this kind of attention.

Sherlock rinsed the suds from John’s hair, tilting John’s head back a little and carefully sponging the shampoo away with a flannel, before it could sting John’s eyes. Then applied conditioner. John smiled beatifically, before deciding he should at least start on the rest of the wash.

“Pass me the shower gel, honeybee.”

“Not yet.”

Conditioner rinsed free, Sherlock poured a palmful of John’s sage and lemon gel, built up a lather in his hands and began to wash John’s shoulders.

That was even less common than the hair wash. “Sherlock?”

“I want to, John. May I? Please?”

“Of course, sweetpea,” agreed John, “Then I’ll look after you.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock tenderly, “Perfect.”

With firm hands and the sweetest care, Sherlock bathed John. Shoulders, arms, hands. Chest and back. Legs and feet. “John, shall I…?”

“Okay. I might… don’t worry if I react.”

Sherlock washed John’s backside and genitals, not lingering unnecessarily. John’s cock swelled at the intimacy of the touch, brief as it was. He was used to giving that touch, but not receiving it. It gave him a curious thrill of pleasure, partly sexual but mostly… poignant, somehow. Loving and, paradoxically, chaste, aimed not at physical response, though there was one, but at the feeling of being cared for. Right then, John understood exactly why Sherlock melted into a compliant bundle of afterglow when John looked after him in the same way.

“All right, John?”

John blinked his eyes open, that beatific smile still in place, and leaned forward just enough to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. He grinned at how adorable Sherlock looked, the wonderful planes of his face surmounted by that preposterous shower cap. “Fantastic, sweetheart.”

“I can…”

“No, baby. This is perfect. I don’t need anything else right now. Your turn?”

Sherlock handed John the small bottle of his own nearly scentless gel. Sherlock disliked strong scents on his own skin, normally, as they interfered with his ability to use all of his senses while working. More recently, Sherlock had also decided to forgo a former favourite gel because, really, it turned out his favourite scent in the world was whatever John smelled like at any given moment. He hadn’t told John this.

John lathered the gel in his hands and Sherlock waited, eyes closed, for the touch that had become so familiar, and so welcome. At the first touch of John’s palm and fingers on his chest, Sherlock gave a little sigh.

On the bathmat, a short while later, they laughed while trying to simultaneously dry each other. Then they each put on the terry towelling bathrobes that hung behind the door. Sherlock plucked off the shower cap and his dark curls sprung out, looking as artlessly arranged as always, by which John knew he had spent a good half hour making it look like that after washing it earlier.

“I’m going to shave you now, John.”

John had no idea why Sherlock was treating him to such lavish attention. It was certainly less efficient than getting ready separately for the day. Instead of asking, however, he trusted to Sherlock’s stated timetable. Efficiency, apparently, was not the purpose of the morning. He took Sherlock’s hand and kissed his fingers. “Where should I sit?”

Sherlock popped out to fetch the chair he’d left by the door before going to wake John earlier. John sat as indicated and watched as Sherlock prepared the lather, picked up the hand towel, and then picked up a straight razor.

“Closest shave you’ll ever have,” Sherlock promised him.

Only John could reply with an unspoken pun about close shaves and Sherlock with merely an expression. Only Sherlock could respond with an unvoiced groan at the pun with nothing but a slight crease at the corner of his mouth. Only John and Sherlock could laugh at and with each other without making a sound.

John had never been shaved by someone else before. If Ella could have seen him now, baring his throat to a naked blade held by a man who had sometimes been as dangerous as Sally Donovan had suspected him capable, his old therapist would have been astonished. Trust issues were not, it seemed, issues any more.

Sherlock lathered shaving cream around John’s throat, jaw and cheeks and then, with infinite care, drew the long, sharp blade across John’s vulnerable skin. Between swipes of the blade, he would rinse the razor, inspect the result, ensure the shave was both close and harmless. When he was done, he patted the residual soap and specks of hair away with a warm flannel, carefully dried John‘s face and then smeared a soothing aftershave cream over it.

“John?”

“Pookie.”

“Don’t fall asleep, John, we haven’t the time.”

John opened his eyes again, and wondered at how often he simply closed his eyes and submitted. Well, he didn’t wonder, really. It all seemed perfectly natural. John rubbed his fingers appreciatively across his jaw. Not a bristle remained.

Before John could ask the question, Sherlock was answering it. “I learned how to give a razor cut for a case in my early years. I've apprenticed to a lot of odd jobs, of course. I gathered a lot of random data back then, not knowing what might be most useful.”

“What was the case?”

“Buttock mutiliations,” said Sherlock, wrapping the clean razor up in a soft leather case, “Turned out to be the barber’s sister.”

John considered the concept of _buttock mutiliations_.

“All on the left cheeks. All Zs.”

“Like… Zorro?”

“Yes. She claimed she was ‘fighting injustice by marking misogynist pricks as a warning to the sisterhood.’” The quote was delivered in a flawless Geordie accent. Sherlock held his hand out, John took it, and they went to the kitchen.

Sherlock had obviously used the hours he’d already been awake well. The breakfast table was set, and at its centre was a bowl of strawberries and another of cream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the Moir Sisters sing their pretty one-hit wonder, [Good Morning (How are you?)](http://youtu.be/6-HTnFtkUVI) and try to imagine it in baritone.


	2. Timetable: Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feeds John crepes and strawberries and, in due course, the reason for all this very particular care this morning.

“Strawberries are second course,” said Sherlock sternly as John reached for the bowl, “Sit down while I prepare the first.”

John sat and said not a single word about Sherlock never having cooked breakfast for them before. This was obviously a morning for unusual but lovely gestures, and John wasn’t about to spoil the mood with jokes.

John watched Sherlock working in the kitchen with a frying pan, batter and a selection of ingredients he must have prepared earlier in the morning. John was slightly amazed and wholly charmed, not to mention increasingly, gob-smackingly in love. He hadn’t thought that possible, but no – there was still more love to be in with Sherlock. It struck him as a wonderful pattern to be setting up for the years ahead.

Sherlock had finished filling the crepe in the pan with finely chopped smoked ham, finely grated gruyere, chopped ripe tomatoes and fresh basil, torn so the aroma drifted tantalisingly to the table. With deft use of a spatula, Sherlock folded the crepe around the ingredients, turned it briefly so that the dish was heated evenly, then turned it out onto a plate. He delivered the crepe to John’s place-setting with a flourish, then sat beside him.

John picked up the cutlery and paused to inhale the scent of his breakfast (first course) with proper appreciation, then cut into the crepe. He made a point of slowing down his usual ‘swallow quick before the next crisis’ approach so that he could savour the taste. He pretended not to see how avidly Sherlock was watching him.

John didn’t have to fake his reaction.

“Oh. My. God.” John closed his mouth and sort of sucked on his own tongue to get the most out of that heavenly mouthful. “Oh my god. That is. My god. Honeybumble, that’s…” Instead of attempting to find an adjective worthy of the task, John shoved another forkful of crepe into his mouth and then made what was very nearly a sex face.

Sherlock smirked a little, pleased with the response even though he’d predicted it.

“I was an apprentice chef for a little while, too,” he admitted, “Under Alexis Gauthier. This was before I met you. The case was disappointingly dull, but I learned to make the perfect crepe.”

“Why have you never mentioned this before?” asked John, although it was a little indistinct, as he was busy eating another mouthful.

“I don’t want to spring all of my surprises at once, John. I intend to still be surprising you well into retirement.”

John held up a portion of savoury crepe. “You have to try this.”

“I know what it tastes like, John.”

John simply kept the fork in the air and raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve eaten, John.”

The other eyebrow went up and John’s lips pursed in disapproval.

Sherlock opened his mouth and obediently took the offered bite. It was impressive, as he’d known it would be. John looked entirely too pleased with himself at having made Sherlock eat something, but Sherlock didn’t find that as annoying as he used to. He leaned over to kiss John’s lips briefly.

“Thank you, but I’m really not very hungry. I have a lot to accomplish this morning, but you need at least a light breakfast or you’ll be grumpy. I don’t want you to be grumpy when we take our vows.”

John ate more of his crepe. “I could not possibly be grumpy this morning, no matter what,” he said after the next bite. Then he grinned. “You were absolutely right about not sleeping apart last night. What a rubbish idea that was.”

Sherlock rubbed his thumb against John’s lower lip, capturing a stray spot of basil. “Of course it was. I spent a whole year away from you once, and that was a terrible idea too, however necessary. Now I can stay awake all night to listen to you breathing, if I want to, and I am not spending another night away if I can help it. Those days at the Isle of Wight were bad enough. I had nightmares every night I was gone.”

“Yeah.” John pushed the empty plate aside and took Sherlock’s right hand in his left. “Me too. No more nights apart, if it can possibly be helped.”

Sherlock nodded his satisfaction at that declaration, then swept up, taking dishes with him. “Don’t start on the strawberries yet,” he instructed.

“I’ll wait, sweetling.”

Sherlock washed his hands at the sink and returned to place both berries and cream in front of his own chair. He stared at the bowls for a little while, contemplating the next stage of the schedule.

John patted Sherlock’s hand to get his attention. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock picked up a strawberry – richly red and plump, scented with summer, clearly the very best fruit that Sherlock could find this June, in the midst of the best time of year for strawberries. He swirled it in the cream and held the result up, but he looked uncertain.

“I… want to… feed them to you,” said Sherlock. He swallowed. “It’s too much, isn’t it? I’m being…”

John leaned over and bit the strawberry, feeling the cool cream hit his mouth a moment before the berry burst with flavour on his tongue. He took a moment to swirl his tongue around the berry, sucking up stray juice, and as a result licking against Sherlock’s fingers. Mouth still full of berry and cream, he pressed a little kiss to Sherlock’s lips, then swallowed.

“It’s not too much. Not today. Today it’s perfect.” He kissed Sherlock again and then pulled back a fraction. He smiled, licked his lower lip, then parted his lips, waiting to be fed.

Sherlock dipped a second strawberry in cream and, looking as though he was also falling more in love every passing second, he fed the treat to his love. When berry juice spilled from the corner of John’s mouth, he wiped it away with his thumb and then licked his thumb clean.

When the berry was eaten, John whispered, “Now me.” He fed a cream-dipped strawberry to Sherlock, who sighed and closed his eyes to relish both the flavour and the following sensation of John’s lips on his for yet another kiss.

As Sherlock offered the next berry to John, emotions already intense seemed to take on a solemnity, a heart-shaking profundity that threatened for a moment to be overwhelming – until John took the next turn and instead of feeding the strawberry to Sherlock, used it to paint a stripe of cream down his imperious nose. Giggling, John kissed the cream off again, and finished by planting a wet, noisy kiss on the bridge of Sherlock’s nose.

Sherlock laughed, as John meant him to. He used the next strawberry to paint warrior stripes across John’s cheeks, squishing the berry down to get a good red mixing with the cream.

It couldn’t really be termed a food fight, what happened next, but they both ended up with strawberry and cream stripes across their faces, and they were both giggling like loons as they alternatively kissed and licked the stripes away.

When Sherlock grabbed a dampened tea towel to clean their faces, John interrupted by giving Sherlock a long kiss.

“Best breakfast ever,” asserted John, grinning, as he came up for air, “How’s the schedule coming along?”

“Within parameters,” Sherlock informed him merrily.

John grabbed the tea towel out of Sherlock’s hands and used it to remove cream from Sherlock’s earlobe. “This feels like we’re doing the honeymoon first. No complaints, mind.”

“I should hope not.”

“Any special reason for it this morning, though? Apart from the fact we’re getting married in a few hours?”

Sherlock waited until John finished cleaning his face, then took charge of the cloth and began to clean John’s before answering. John submitted to the grooming, and waited for Sherlock to find his words.

“I want, before we marry,” said Sherlock at last, “To reciprocate, to whatever small degree I can, the care you’ve shown for me, particularly since Manchester. There have been so many times when I have thought, this is it. This is where John will say ‘enough’; that you will find me too strange or wrong to endure. But at each point where you could have turned from me, you have instead been… patient. Kind.” Sherlock’s lips quirked in small smile. “Accepting. Loving.”

He smiled, then, and let his fingers drift over John’s face, which was currently wearing an expression so tender it was almost hard to look at. “I swore when you returned to Baker Street that I would be good to you,” he continued, “And as often as I fail, I do _try_. And I wanted, today especially, for you to know how you make me feel. To show you how it feels to be… _cherished_.” He cleared his throat softly, trying to free it of the choke of emotion. “This morning’s endeavours seemed the best way to do it.”

Sherlock was not entirely certain how John would respond to this speech. However, being held tightly and kissed all over his face while John said, over and over, _I love you I love you I love you_ was definitely in the top four possibilities.


	3. Timetable: Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John dresses for the wedding up in his old room, and reflects for a while on the changes in his life that this room bore witness to. Sherlock has a few thoughts downstairs as well, before they reunite for tea, some thoughts for those not present, and a practice dance...

John ruffled Sherlock’s hair affectionately as he stood. “Tea,” he declared, “Then we dress.”

“No.” Sherlock put a restraining hand on John’s wrist. “Wash up, then dress, _then_ tea.”

Any other day, John would have protested, or just gone and made the damned tea, whatever Sherlock said. But this morning, Sherlock had his timetable and it had been so perfect to date that John was willing accepted the directive, with only a token protest. 

"There’s definitely time for tea?"

Sherlock grinned up at John – he had never confessed this, but he liked it sometimes when John stood over him like this, making him look up. It offered new angles from which to appreciate John’s wonderful face. "I promise. I wouldn't let you go off to get married without a soothing cup of tea."

"I don't need soothing. I'm not nervous."

"I know you're not nervous," Sherlock said, "That doesn't mean tea isn't soothing." This angle also meant his face was close to John’s chest, and he liked John’s chest. John’s bathrobe had parted a little, too, leaving a strip of warm skin available. Sherlock took advantage of the moment to kiss John’s sternum, then his stomach, while John ran fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

Then Sherlock tugged the robe closed over John’s hips and groin and legs, because although he liked all of that too, they were running out of time for him to kiss everything he liked. Time enough for that _after_ the ceremony.

“Wash up,” he instructed instead, patting John’s hip with one hand and rubbing a thumb against John’s jaw with the other. “You still have strawberry on your face.”

John laughed. "You're a bit of a strawberry war zone yourself."

Sherlock was aware of the residual stickiness. The strawberry painting had not been in the schedule at all, though he’d enjoyed the departure immensely. Still, they had to move quickly to keep to the timetable. "We have half an hour," said Sherlock, "Wash up, dress, then come back here. There'll be a pot waiting."

John used the bathroom first, washing his face, brushing his teeth and adding a little product to his mostly dry hair. His short cut never took long to arrange, even when he was taking extra care, like he was now.

Done, he handed the bathroom over to Sherlock and trotted upstairs to his old room, where his wedding suit hung ready. 

He’d laid his clothes out here yesterday when he’d still expected to sleep apart from Sherlock as a symbolic gesture before the wedding. Really, what bollocks. What had he been thinking?

He didn’t miss this room at all. He didn’t miss sleeping alone. He certainly didn’t miss waking alone.

Not that the room was full of terrible memories. The opposite, in fact. When he’d first moved to Baker Street, it had been home in a way that no place had been since he’d begun to study medicine. (That was not long before his father was diagnosed with lung cancer. A year later, Jack was dead. His mother, Fiona, died of breast cancer during his first overseas assignment. He and Harry had never got on well, so after that, he hadn’t had a home for the longest time.)

John slipped off the robe and draped it over the end of his old bed. He shook out his folded pants and stepped into them. Then he took the dark trousers from their hanger and pulled them on. His eye was caught by the sunlight falling on old chest of drawers where he used to keep his gun.

No, this room held a lot of strange but good memories. This was where he’d finally stopped being afraid of having his gun too close at hand on the bad days. This was the room where nightmares had waned at long last. This was where he had lain some nights listening to Sherlock play his violin, and where he had realised one night that Sherlock played _for_ him, to bring him rest on days Sherlock had somehow deduced would trigger nightmares. Here, he’d realised that he felt more than friendship for Sherlock, and had decided he would rather hoard that realisation than risk the friendship. Here, some nights, he had fantasized about kissing a lush mouth and long limbs and a slender, strong body.

Smiling, John took the cream coloured shirt from its hanger and pulled it on. He did up the buttons, remembering other days and nights in this room.

Sherlock had often roused him with sudden intrusions when the game was on, including some nights and mornings where girlfriends had stayed over. Sherlock was always such a git about them, but despite protests, John hadn’t minded all that much. Generally he preferred adventures with Sherlock over conversations with people who complained about the ‘weird creepy flatmate’ whom John adored.

Socks on next, and the highly polished black shoes. John was ex-army. He knew how to make shoes really _shine_. He’d always found the task meditative, except for when Sherlock was dead. John had ruined a couple of pairs of shoes that year (steel wool on one pair; another thrown repeatedly at a wall and then into the garbage). Why his shoes should have borne the brunt of his grief those days, he’d never know.

The year of ruined shoes was the one where John had learned that he would rather be in unrequited love and living with Sherlock as a flatmate than having sex with people he could like but not possibly _love_. He couldn’t bear to even be downstairs at Baker Street with Mrs Hudson, knowing the hollow spaces above his head echoed inside his whole body.

The tie came next. A pale creamy gold, with a round, dark pin. A good knot was also simple to a former army man. John had always turned out crisply handsome in his dress uniform.

Despite all the rage and grief when Sherlock had first returned, John had realised, through Sherlock’s confessions of why he’d tricked John so appallingly, that Sherlock _loved_ him. Sherlock had been hideously ham-fisted about it, of course, and for a long time John couldn’t trust him. (Another pair of shoes went during those six months; John wore them outside in a hailstorm and into numerous puddles, then threw them in the Thames. He’d gone home in squelching socks and it was a miracle he hadn’t caught the flu.)

The grey waistcoat came next, fitting perfectly over the shirt. John did up the buttons and checked his reflection in the mirror attached to the wardrobe full of Sherlock’s ‘disguise’ clothes. He poked at his hair a little, getting it to sit just right.

Coming home at last had been like rediscovering how to breathe. Coming home, knowing that Sherlock loved him enough to have finally put him first. All those looks, before the Fall, had really meant something. John returned to Baker Street and to love that was requited after all, even if the expression of it wasn’t conventional. They were a couple. It’s just that they weren’t like other couples.

John put on the suit jacket and settled it over his broad shoulders. He turned to inspect the result in the mirror, and smiled. He turned his back on his reflection and took a last look at this room as an unmarried man.

This room was where he’d challenged every notion he’d ever had about love and sex, and learned that he was okay with that. More than okay. At nights in this bed during his first six months home, while Sherlock played the violin or conducted experiments downstairs, John had discovered the term _homoromantic asexuality_ through careful research, which he’d wiped from the search history because Sherlock was still useless at boundaries.

This room was where John decided that if Sherlock loved him but didn’t want even to kiss him, that was okay too, because having Sherlock in his life was more important than having sex with him. Because once more there was the violin, ridiculous squabbling, and Sherlock in the morning, on cases, by his side, being maddening and glorious. And more – now there was Sherlock’s hand on his arm, on his back; Sherlock’s head against his shoulder and, more rarely, in his lap as they collapsed on the sofa after a particularly energetic case.

Until Manchester. Blessed Manchester.

A few days after Manchester, John had left this room for Sherlock’s. For everything they had now. Everything that was still to come.

One last thing to be ready. John opened the drawer that had once housed his gun and withdrew a small ring box. He flipped it open to check that Sherlock’s gold band was still in place, as indeed it was. He snapped the box shut, put it in his pocket, patted the lump and then walked down the stairs to the kitchen.

*

Sherlock had dressed more quickly and with less circumspection than John. He paused to straighten the bedding, though, and with that he was momentarily distracted by memory.

To think that he had once feared that John would never love him. That later, he suspected that John certainly did love him but would never admit to it. Then John had admitted it, obliquely the first time – _I_ _think I sort of love the massive dickhead_.

From there, every fear Sherlock held had failed to reach fruition. Fears of rejection; of failure; of _trying_ only for it all to once more go horribly wrong; of being found insufficient and wanting in basic human expectations. These fears had, time and time again, been met with only unfailing acceptance.

Sherlock was not a sentimentalist. He was not given to soppy notions of romantic love. He knew what the world was, and what people were like. He knew first-hand how uncaring and selfish people could be.

But that was John for you. Unlike anyone else in the world. Unique, in Sherlock’s experience. Not perfect by any means…

_But perfect for me._

Sherlock checked the ring box containing John’s wedding band was in his pocket, ready to give to his groomsman for safekeeping, and strode out to the kitchen. He put the kettle on, arranged the best china on a tray and prepared the tea to brew.

It was ready to pour just as John arrived.

“Let me see you,” said John.

“You saw me in this at the fittings,” Sherlock said, but he stood away from the bench and struck a pose.

“Gorgeous,” said John.

“And you,” Sherlock noted, and indeed, John looked very fine. It was a shame there was so little time left in the schedule for unscheduled kissing. “Now. Tea.”

Sherlock poured and they sat opposite each other, drinking excellent tea from fine china. Under the table, their knees bumped companionably.

“I wish my parents could have met you,” said John.

“Are you quite sure? Harry seems to wish she hadn’t had the privilege.”

John grimaced. “Harry doesn’t even like _me_.”

“I will never understand her.”

John shook his head, but he was smiling. “Dad would have loved your sense of humour, though, and Mum would have loved to listen to you play. And she’d have baked you cakes. She was as good as Mrs Hudson when it comes to baked goods.”

“I would have puzzled them,” asserted Sherlock.

John considered this. “Maybe. But they would know how much I love you, and they would see how good you are for me, so I think they’d have been happy for us.” John put his cup down and placed a hand over Sherlock’s. “Your Dad, too.”

Sherlock looked at their joined hands, and thought of his father, who was still mostly a blur – but a warm, happy one. “He would have liked you,” he said, and he was certain that was true.

“Yeah, he would have,” laughed John, “I’m very likable.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“And,” continued John, “He would have been very proud of you. What you do. Everything you’ve achieved. Everything you are. Your Dad would be amazed by you.”

Sherlock, who was in no way a sentimentalist, poured more tea to cover the sharp prickling in his eyes.

“Just like I am, honeybee.”

As Sherlock placed the teapot back on the tray, John took his hand and guided him to his feet. “Come on, sweetpea,” he urged, “One more practice run of the wedding waltz before Greg and Mike get here, hmm?”

Without a moment’s demur, Sherlock put his hand on John’s shoulder while John placed one on his waist, then other hands clasped, they waltzed into the living room, while John sang.

_Circle me and the needle moves gracefully_  
 _Back and forth, if my heart was a compass you'd be north_  
 _Risk it all ‘cause I'll catch you if you fall_  
 _Wherever you go, if my heart was a house you'd be home_

. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyric is from Owl City's [ If My Heart Was a House.]()


	4. Timetable: Groomsmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock show each other the inscriptons they've made on the rings. Later, they explain them to their groomsmen. Long conversations (some of them about difficult histories) fill the time between getting to the gardens and stepping out at 11am to finally say their vows. Also, Harry brings something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue for the one who claims to be the bride.

John and Sherlock were still dancing when the door flew open and Mrs Hudson bustled in.

“Oh, look at you two,” she scolded affectionately, “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony!”

Both men looked at her with raised eyebrows and spoke simultaneously.

“That is an inane superstition.”

“Which one of us is the bride?”

And then they looked at each other and laughed.

“I have no objection to being the bride, John.”

“Well, you are the prettiest,” John conceded, “But I want to throw the bouquet at the end.”

“At whom?”

“Greg, of course.”

“Oh, you silly,” said Mrs Hudson.

“She meant _me_ , then,” preened Sherlock, “And you’re not _carrying_ a bouquet.”

“Too late to get one?”

“Not if you want one,” said Sherlock earnestly.

Mrs Hudson interrupted before they could get any sillier. “Here are your buttonholes. Mycroft just delivered them. He’s taking me and your cake to the gardens now. I’ll see you soon.” Mrs Hudson handed over the sprays of fresh flowers and offered her cheek for kissing. John and Sherlock gladly obliged her.

“I’ll give you a hand,” John said, following Mrs Hudson out the door again. He turned back to Sherlock. “Won’t be long. I just need to check something with Mycroft.”

Sherlock frowned slightly. John smiled gently from the doorway. “I’m just being a nervous groom, checking some last minute things.”

“You’re not nervous. And you said you were the bride.”

“I’m going to ask him to find me a bouquet then, just to see if he can do it at the last minute.”

“John.”

“She’s coming, Sherlock. I just want to…”

“Yes. Fine. Yes.”

John dashed down the stairs and arrived in the hall in time to see Mycroft’s driver carrying a huge cake box out into Baker Street. He followed it and rapped on the window of the back passenger seat. The darkened window hummed as it retracted.

“She _is_ coming, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yes. Mummy is quite looking forward to it, I believe. She said…” Mycroft stopped abruptly and looked away from John’s eyes. “She says she wants to see what he looks like when he’s happy. She expressed some surprise that he clearly was, after so long being miserable, and with someone like you.”

John took a calming breath. He took two. “Great. Terrific. We’ll take pictures so she can remember afterwards.”

Mycroft looked back at his brother’s fierce little doctor. “I confess, you, Doctor Watson, are an unlikely progenitor of joy in someone like Sherlock.” Mycroft winced at the way that had come out. For someone so careful with language, he seemed to time and again say the wrong thing to this man.

John pursed his lips at Mycroft as though considering losing his temper. Instead, he said: “You and your mother can think what you like about me, as long as you’re both there and at least pretend to be happy for us when you throw the rice.”

“No pretence will be required on my part, at least,” said Mycroft in a tone that suggested it cost him pain to do so. He cleared his throat to forestall any reply and fixed John with his usual sardonic eye. “And you do realise that the throwing of rice is a fertility ritual?”

“I don’t give a fuck if it results in one of us getting miraculously pregnant. Sherlock gets the full treatment today, even if he pretends to hate it. He gets to be feted and celebrated. He gets to be _seen_ to be loved, and he gets his family to be seen to be happy for him.”

“Princess for a day?”

“Fuck off, Mycroft.”

Mycroft pressed his lips into a line and, once more cleared his throat. “Sorry. Force of habit. I do truly wish you both well. My happiness for him, for you both, will not be feigned in the slightest.” 

“Fine.” John nodded once, sharply. “And you've got...?”

“Of course. It’s all ready.”

“Good.”

Mrs Hudson finally came out, dithering with her hat, and John helped her into the car. He waved them off and went back upstairs to find Sherlock gazing out of the window.

“What did he have to say?” Sherlock’s voice was full of trepidation.

“He says he wishes us well, and that your mother is looking forward to seeing you happy,” said John, editing the exchange to the essentials.

Sherlock grimaced slightly then turned to run his hands over the lapels of John’s suit. “The cars are due,” he said, “Here.” He picked up one of the floral buttonholes and fixed it in place on John’s suit. John in turn fixed the other on Sherlock’s.

The sound of two cars pulling up outside made them both glance down at the street. Greg Lestrade and Mike Stamford were getting out of their respective chauffeur-driven vehicles, looking splendid in their own suits.

“Time to go,” whispered John.

“Yes.” Sherlock took him by both hands.

John squeezed them and ran his thumbs over the back of Sherlock’s fingers. “I want to go in the same car with you,” he confessed suddenly, “I don’t want you out of my sight for a second. I know that’s stupid…”

“Not stupid,” Sherlock told him, “No. I want to be with you forever. Starting now.”

John laughed breathily, knowing exactly how Sherlock felt. Then he said “Oh!” and pulled away. “I meant to show you…” he said, “There probably won’t be enough time during the ceremony itself to see it properly…” He shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out the ring box. He flipped it open to show it to Sherlock. “The inscription…”

Sherlock took the box, and gave the one from his own pocket to John to view.

For a moment they each looked at what the other had inscribed in the inner circle of the wedding bands they would exchange in a short while. Then, grinning, they put the rings back in the correct boxes, then back in their pockets.

Fingers rapped a light knock on the door, and the door was pushed slowly open. Greg and Mike were not spared, however. John and Sherlock were in each other’s arms, kissing, and they didn’t seem interested in stopping, despite the audience.

“We can come back later,” said Mike, laughing in his fond, friendly manner, “I think we can give you half an hour in the schedule.”

“Aren’t you pre-empting the honeymoon a bit?” suggested Greg when the first comment was ignored.

John drew away at last, but he didn’t take his eyes from Sherlock’s. People were always doing this, assuming they were having sex in the living room, or about to have sex. If anyone shagged as often as they assumed he and Sherlock did, they’d be dead of exhaustion in a week. Certainly there’d be friction burns.

 _Though to be fair,_ John thought, _All of it today – the shower and breakfast and dancing – it’s how we make love, even when we’re not having sex._

“See you soon, honeybee,” he murmured. He gave Sherlock a final smile, and stepped smartly back. “Come on, Mike. Get me to the gardens so I can get married to this amazing man.”

“My pleasure,” Mike held the door open for him, and John preceded him down the stairs without a backward glance – because he thought he’d run right back up if he took one.

Greg watched them go, then turned to Sherlock. Sherlock’s expression was a peculiar mix of besotted and bereft. “Hey. It’s okay,” Greg said soothingly, “You’ll see him again in a minute.”

“In two hours,” said Sherlock crisply, “When I have had the opportunity to examine the arrangements at the pavilion, and the witnesses have assembled.”

“Yeah, but you’ll find a way to spy on him before that.”

“It is bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” sniffed Sherlock.

“He’s the bride is he?”

“He insisted.”

“That’s because he’s a gentleman,” said Greg, holding back the laughter, “And because he knows how insufferable you’d be as a bridezilla.” Sherlock frowned at Greg, but Greg could see his heart wasn’t in it. “Come on. Let’s get going.”

Sherlock strode to the music stand and picked up his violin case. He’d rosined the bow earlier, before his shower, and the music was within the case as well. Not that he needed it now: he knew the piece by heart.

That thought made him smile. By heart, indeed.

“Make sure this is ready after the speeches,” he said, handing the case over.

“Will do,” Greg assured him. He took a firm grip of the case, as though to demonstrate how seriously he took his duties as Sherlock’s best man.

Sherlock led the way down the stairs, only just containing his eagerness to be on his way. Greg got into the back seat with him and placed the violin case between them as the car drove them towards Richmond, and the Kew Gardens.

At the gardens, two small tents had been set up at either end of the Nash Conservatory, where John and Sherlock could wait and finish their final preparations for the ceremony, which was to be held on the stretch of grass just on the other side of the Broad Walk path.

John would already have walked around the site, Sherlock knew, but that didn’t stop him walking around it himself. He had too much energy to simply sit, and he had hoped to meet up with John while he was still out. But no, John and Mike had arrived ahead of them and had obviously retired now to John’s own tent. Guests were beginning to arrive, though. Mrs Hudson, obviously, and he could see Harry Watson striding down the path in his direction.

Sherlock did not want to speak to Harry Watson. From her gait she seemed sober, but Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to see if she was simply not yet drunk enough to be a disruption. Instead, he stalked off towards the Conservatory, Greg in his wake.

Alas, no John here either, but Sherlock took a brief tour. A baby grand piano had been installed as requested for the post-ceremony dancing. No sign yet of the pianist, but he (or she – engaging a pianist had been a task that John had volunteered for) hardly needed to be here for an hour yet.

Places were set for the champagne and light lunch for the relatively small number of guests. Most of the rest of the space was taken up with dance floor and flowers.

Mrs Hudson’s wedding cake was standing in the centre of the head table. The figures on it were detailed down to the hair and, as Sherlock had suspected, terribly, terribly cute. The fact that he didn’t mind was, he thought, a clear indication that his mind was impaired. But since his mind was impaired, he didn’t mind the impairment either. Instead, he swept out again and took refuge in his own ready-tent, heedless of whether Greg kept up with him or not.

Greg did, however. Inside the tent, where it was both cool and light, Greg took the violin case from Sherlock’s grip and placed it on a table. When Sherlock proceeded to pace instead of sitting in one of the available chairs, Greg sat instead.

“Shall I take the ring now?” Greg suggested.

Sherlock took the box from his pocket and handed it over. Greg opened the box to take out the ring and inspect it.

“I’d better not lose this,” he joked, “You’ll kill me if you can’t get married today. And I bet you know how to get away with it, too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Greg,” said Sherlock, “The ring is symbolic. It’s _all_ symbolic. John would marry me today even if we have to weave rings out of grass. The ring isn’t a legal requirement in any case.”

“I won’t lose it, though.”

“You’d better not.”

Greg inspected the ring more closely. “What’s this?” he asked, squinting at the inside of the band.

“Our initials.”

“I mean the other thing.”

“You need your glasses.”

Greg scowled at him, then fetched a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and lodged them on his face. He looked again. “It looks like a heart.”

“Yes.”

“Not a love heart. A _heart_.”

“Anatomically correct, yes. John is a doctor, Greg. He knows what hearts actually look like.”

“And this one is yours?”

“Not literally.”

“Oh, I think it is. I think it is you literally giving your heart to John.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, as though he couldn’t decide whether to smile or scowl. Greg just grinned at him and went back to examining the inscription. “So what’s the W in SWH for?”

“William. My father’s name.”

“And the H in JHW?”

“Hamish.”

“He keeps that quiet.”

“He doesn’t like it much.”

“And yet you inscribe it on the ring?”

“It’s _symbolic_. We pledge everything to each other. Even the parts we don’t much like about ourselves.”

“I see.”

“I don’t imagine you do.”

Greg put the ring back in the box and stowed it in his pocket. “I do, Sherlock. I really do. I knew you before John came along, remember. I knew you at your worst.”

Sherlock ceased to pace. He regarded Greg with solemnity. “Yes. You did.”

“And at your best too, you know. What you did for us. And for John, especially.”

“And _to_ him.”

“Maybe so,” said Greg, rising to place a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “But he forgives you for that. We all do. You should too.”

Sherlock sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair, looking away.

“Sherlock.” Greg moved closer to him and ducked his head to force their eyes to meet. “Have I told you how proud I am of you? I’m grateful, of course. You saved us. I know it wasn’t easy, what you had to do, but I think for you coming back was harder.”

Sherlock blinked. Nodded.

“But you gave John the time he needed to work through it all. You kept taking care of him the best way you knew how when he needed the space for it. And you were there for him when he realised he didn’t want to be without you.”

“Where else was there for me to be? I’d have been there until we were both dead of old age, waiting for forgiveness.”

“Good thing John’s not quite that stubborn, then.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve come such a long way, Sherlock, from when I first met you. You’ve grown. And I’m proud of you. Just so you know.”

Sherlock was too stunned to speak for a moment, and then all he could think to say was: “Thank you.”

*

“William. After his dad, you say?” said Mike, peering at the ring it was his duty to hold until needed.

“Yeah.” John appreciated Mike making small talk, he really did, but it didn’t keeping him from peeking out the tent flap to the chairs on the lawn across the way. He’d missed Sherlock by seconds. Now he could see Harry prowling about, examining the seating.

“And what’s this about the wings on the bee? They look a little odd. Like an infinity symbol.”

“Got it in one,” confirmed John, feeling self-conscious. _My honeybee. Forever._ He’d started second guessing himself and worrying that Sherlock would hate it, but the reaction in their living room had settled that concern.

“That’s really lovely,” said Mike. The thing about Mike was that when he said something was really lovely, he wasn’t just being polite. His tone was infused with warmth and appreciation.

And oh, thank god, there was Eloise, being placed in a front row seat by Mycroft. Eloise looked elegant and aloof, but she was pointing at things and talking to Mycroft. Not criticising the colour scheme or the flowers or anything, John very much hoped. Or she could do that if she wanted, as long as she was nice to Sherlock when they came out.

Oh lord, and now Harry had come over to sit down between Eloise and Mycroft. That had been a joke, saying they’d make them sit together, and now they were doing it _on purpose_.

Harry seemed sober, at least. And she was talking to Mycroft. Smirking about something. Rattling his cage, no doubt. Harry had a talent for that.

And Mycroft laughed, and Harry laughed back, and Eloise gave them a puzzled look but then smiled.

John wasn’t sure he could cope with that. He ducked back inside the tent.

“How long till the ceremony?”

“Still an hour to go. The celebrant will be here before long to have a final chat.”

John sighed. He wanted to get married _now_. He wanted to see Sherlock. He wanted…

“There was a time I wished I’d never introduced you two.”

John looked up at Mike, startled.

“After we all thought he died, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so devastated. And it was worse after he came back and we found out what he’d done. I didn’t think you’d ever be happy again, John. And I felt that it was my fault. That I should never have introduced you.”

“No, Mike,” said John with animated defiance. “Don’t ever think that. It got ugly, I know, but I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t seen me that day.” _Bullet in the brain_ , a dark voice whispered, _drunk on the streets, dead in a brawl. I had nothing, then I had something worth living for, and now I have everything_. “Even when it was at its worst, I never wished that. Never. Don’t wish it on me.”

“I don’t. Not seeing the two of you now. You were certainly good for him, John,” Mike smiled, that kind and understanding expression, “And he was good for you too. _Is_ good for you.”

Before John could reply, a small hand pushed the tent flap aside and Harry walked in.

“Hey Johnny,” she said, smiling as though unsure of her welcome.

“Harry. Thanks for coming.” He tried not to sound as wary as he felt.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” she asserted, then seemed to think that the announcement didn’t sound as friendly as intended. “I brought you something.”

John was relieved to see her sober, and his complicated feelings about having even asked her to the wedding resolved into being very pleased she’d come. Especially when she stepped up to him and drew a little parcel wrapped in tissue paper from her pocket.

“I’ll wait outside,” said Mike, who was always very good at judging when his presence wasn’t required.

Harry folded the paper back to show John the elegant brooch in her palm. It was a simple gold bar, with a dark sapphire embedded at one end. It had belonged to their mother. The sapphire was the colour of the eyes of the Watsons.

“I wore this when Clara and I got married,” said Harry. She smiled, and the ruefulness of her tone became lighter. “She’s coming along today. We’re going to try again. I’ve been six months sober and she’s giving me another chance.” Harry leaned over and pinned the brooch to John’s lapel, and he stood still to let her. “I had the pin fixed last week, so it’s good as new again. It’s like the old rhyme, Johnny. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.” She patted the brooch into place. “If it works out with Clara, you can give it back. Hold onto it until then.”

John couldn’t take his eyes off the brooch. “Mum wore this on her wedding day.”

“I know.” She smiled again, more wobbly this time. “She’d have been proud of you, John. Both of them would have been. And I am, too. And I’m glad your Sherlock got his shit together and worked out how special you are. If he forgets and ever makes you that sad again, I’m going to beat the living fuck out of him.”

That made John laugh, which was fortunate, because he’d been on the brink of tears again, and that was stupid. He was insanely, gloriously happy and he didn’t want to be bloody _crying_.

“Thanks, sis.” There was more to say, but he couldn’t say it. Instead, he crushed her in a hug. “Thank you. For coming. For the tough love. For everything.”

The tough love.

Because the day after Sherlock made the shocking return to life, John had been so enraged, so distressed, so lost and confused, he’d actually gone to his alcoholic big sister for support.

Her idea of sympathy and support had never been soft, though.

“He’s a fuckhead,” she’d said, “If I get my hands on him he’s going to lose a kidney.”

“Yes,” John had agreed, then, “No,” and then, “He did it to save me. Moriarty was going to have me shot if Sherlock wasn’t seen to die.” John explained it as best he could, around his grief and fury.

Harry had been unimpressed. “He’s still a fuckhead. Beats me you can love him so much.”

“I don’t…”

“Of course you do. Only someone you love profoundly can make you this hurt and this angry. I know. Trust me.” She’d jabbed him in the chest. “You are desperately in love with that little shit or you wouldn’t have put up with him before, or be running to me now to work out how to fix it. You want advice? Here’s advice. Find a way to forgive him, or to let him go, because hovering in the middle will kill you.”

And John had thought about that for about one minute. He’d thought about walking away and never seeing Sherlock again. And he couldn’t. So the only thing to do was to forgive Sherlock. At least, to try. And so he’d tried. Week in, week out. Because Harry was right. There were only two choices, and he couldn’t bear to let go.

Even then, he’d come close. Three months in and it was as hard as ever, and Sherlock had been once more making the old argument.

_He would have killed you. And I think I could learn to live without Greg, and Mrs Hudson, but I could never learn to live without you. As long as you were safe it didn’t matter about me. Dying out there would not have mattered, as long as you were safe._

_Next you’ll be telling me you love me._

_Would you be more or less angry if I did?_

_About the same amount of angry, Sherlock. About the fucking same._

But he wasn’t the same amount of angry at all, because John had seen the straight truth that Sherlock did love him right there in Sherlock’s eyes, and it gave him strength to keep trying, to look for the path to forgiveness. Until at last they found it.

John released Harry from the crushing hug and found that she was crying now, pushing at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Bloody hell,” she complained, “I even wore mascara and everything today.” She poked at her face, and John spat on a tissue and tried to help clean up her panda eyes.

“There,” he said, “You look lovely.”

Harry sighed. “How did you do it, John? Forgive him?”

“He said he was sorry and he meant it,” John told her, “And he didn’t ask me to forgive him for it. I was miserable, and he was miserable and he just wanted _me_ to not be miserable any more. And then it all went away and I wasn’t angry anymore.”

Harry nodded, though John couldn’t see how it made any sense said out loud like that. “Good,” she said, “Maybe I’ll try that with Clara. Because I _am_ sorry.”

“It means not expecting her to forgive you, though,” he felt bound to warn her, “It’s not a magic formula. You might say sorry and she still might not forgive you.”

“I know. But she deserves the sorry anyway.”

John hugged his sister again, and kissed her damp face. “Good luck, Harry.”

“Thanks Johnny. Now…” Harry sniffed and straightened up, ready to face the world again. “I’m going to go out there and rag Sherlock’s snooty brother until Clara gets here. That man is _such_ a queen. We’re both critiquing all the guests, and he is checking out the arse of every unattached single male who hoves into view. He’ll deny it till he‘s dead and buried, but it’s completely what he’s doing.”

Harry left. Mike returned. John watched Harry teasing Mycroft and he watched Mycroft… well, how about that, checking out the talent. Eloise asked something pointed, Harry seemed to answer bluntly and once more, Eloise laughed.

Watsons, it seemed, amused Holmeses no end.

*

The celebrant popped into Sherlock’s tent to go over the ceremony, and was impatiently ignored and then dismissed. Greg took the effort to be polite and to apologise, and she only smiled and said she was used to nervous grooms. Sherlock snapped at her that he wasn’t _nervous_ , he just wanted to get married to John _this instant._

The celebrant popped into John’s tent and was impatiently questioned closely and then ignored. Mike apologised for the abruptness. She smiled and said she was used to nervous grooms. John snapped at her that he wasn’t _nervous_ , getting married was nothing like getting _shot at_ and for god’s sake, _can I see him now? I want to get married. **Now**_ **.**

All the guests were assembled. The celebrant walked across the path to the pillars that marked where John and Sherlock would stand for their vows. She raised her hands and asked for quiet. A helper started the music on the discreetly hidden sound system and an elegant version of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Minor began to play.

Mike held the tent flap open for John and they stepped out into the sunny morning.

Only yards away, Greg held the tent open for Sherlock. Sherlock ducked a little to clear the white tarpaulin, his eyes searching at once for John.

John and Sherlock stopped and grinned at each other, like fools, like this was the first time they’d seen each other in months, like each was the best and brightest and most beautiful thing they’d ever seen.

With their best men on either side, John and Sherlock strode straight towards each other, and clasped hands tightly.

Then hand in hand, they turned and walked down the path marked with flowers, across to the lawn where everyone they cared about was watching them, towards the pillars where they would take their vows.


	5. Timetable: Get Married

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ceremony takes place. John and Sherlock exchange words from the heart. There's rice. There are awful love songs. There are speeches, and a final gift from Sherlock to John, and then a surprise pianist for the bridal waltz...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is flat out the fluffiest, schmoopiest thing I've ever written. My own wedding wasn't this awash with sentiment. I hope you find it was worth the wait...

The moment their hands clasped, John felt the calm settle over him again. Which was odd, as he hadn’t realised he didn’t feel calm. Perhaps it was better to say he felt _whole_ again. Yes. He wasn’t likely to experience separation anxiety from Sherlock for the rest of his life – some days it was a positive necessity that he get out of the house for a long walk alone – but today, he wanted to be nothing more than right here, where he was, Sherlock’s hand in his, with everyone alive who mattered watching them.

As they walked, Pachelbel's Canon swelling around them in the sunshine, John noted those who’d come.

There was Harry, with Clara on one side of her and Mycroft on the other. Harry was grinning at him like a knowing fool, and she was holding onto Clara’s hand as tightly as he was holding Sherlock’s. Clara, bless her, was squeezing Harry’s hand in return, and grinning at him just as broadly. He’d always liked Clara.

Mycroft was not a grinner, but he looked quietly pleased, in his dapper way. Next to him, Eloise gazed at them, faintly puzzled it seemed, but also faintly approving. John had no idea how he could recognise such an odd expression, and then realised it was still because her eyes were like the eyes he knew.

He felt Sherlock’s hand squeeze his, and saw the expression on his face as Sherlock looked at his mother and brother. Mycroft nodded to his little brother, and Eloise lifted her chin and smiled. Sherlock’s breath hitched slightly, and John held his hand more tightly still.

Mrs Hudson was already wiping her eyes and she waggled a tiny wave to them, and John and Sherlock smiled at her, and Sherlock even sent a tiny wave back. She laughed and began to cry simultaneously, their so-much-more-than-landlady.

Angelo was there with his wife and children; and several people they knew from Sherlock’s information networks. And god, Henry Knight, that wonderful man, who had never given up on Sherlock, had kept on believing alongside John through the darkest days. Percy Trevelyan and his wife, too.

And there was Major James Sholto, so much improved from those terrible injuries. Near him, more friends from John's army days, including Murray. A few friends from the hospital where he worked, and from Barts.

Molly beamed at them as they passed, and then at Greg and Mike walking just behind. She was dressed in yellow, as bright and beautiful as a sunflower.

And there was Dimmock. And good lord, Donovan and Anderson, looking as surprised to be there as he felt to see them. John didn’t know if Sherlock had invited them because he considered them friends now or because he wanted to prove to them that this day was possible – but it didn’t matter which. He found he didn’t mind. How could he mind anything?

 _They will see how much he’s loved_ , John thought. And then the little voice he’d been telling to shush for a while now fluttered up, equal parts delight and wonder. _And **me**. They will see that this extraordinary man chose **me**. Wants **me**. Trusts **me**. They’ll see that he loves unremarkable **me**._

They came to a stop in front of the two pillars, and the celebrant who stood between them. The music faded and John and Sherlock shifted to face each other, holding both hands now. Mike stood just behind John; Greg just behind Sherlock.

“Good morning, everyone,” began the celebrant, with the transatlantic accent of an American-born inhabitant of London, “And welcome to you all, to the wedding of John and Sherlock. My name is Wendy Merrick, and I will be officiating today. So before we begin, there are a few things to cover, and then we can get on with the important part of the day, which John and Sherlock have been so very eager to get to.” She smiled, like they were the two most adorably impatient men she’d ever met in her life.

Mrs Hudson’s nephew, who had come up with his husband from the Isle of Wight for the occasion, moved around, taking photos, all during Wendy’s discussion of the outline of the day, the note that rice should only be thrown here, where there was a carpet down underneath all the chairs, and the call for anyone knowing of a lawful impediment to this marriage to speak now or forever shut the hell up.

She had to prompt John and Sherlock to stop gazing raptly at each other long enough to also declare that they were free to marry. They were rather preoccupied it seemed, busy having volumes of silent conversation with their eyes, their grins, their postures.

“John and Sherlock would now like to use their own words, in front of you, their friends and family, to declare their feelings for each other.”

Mike handed John a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket. John glanced over it, but he knew what he wanted to say.

“When Mike introduced me to you as a potential flatmate,” John began, “I could not have known how profoundly you would change my life, and how quickly. Because you did. Utterly, irrevocably, and for the better. I came to you dispirited, purposeless, a man lost in his own country, and you gave me spirit, purpose and a home.”

Sherlock’s eyes were locked onto John’s. He knew all of this. Of course he did. But hearing it in front of everyone made it feel like it was the first time it had ever been acknowledged. Knowing how he’d changed John’s life made him feel, not proud, it turned out, but humble.

John held his hands more tightly. “And when dark times came,” he continued, and Sherlock swallowed at what surely was coming next, “And you left me, because you had no choice, the memory of you kept me strong. But it turned out you weren’t done changing me, Sherlock. You came back from the dead. You came back to me, and my life changed again. For the better, again.”

John leaned a little towards him and added softly, “That doesn’t mean you’re allowed to go away again, by the way.”

“Never,” was all Sherlock managed to reply.

John nodded and stood straight again. “The thing is, Sherlock, until we met, I was never really comfortable in my own skin. I’ve never been easily one thing or another. I was always too many things and most of them didn't go together. So I was a doctor _and_ a soldier. I worked in hospitals and then in war zones. I trained to heal and I trained to fight. Some days I felt like two people in the same body. I didn’t fit anywhere, really. Until you. You showed me how I could be whole; how the parts I didn’t think fit together were complementary. They were necessary and important and of value. And finally I fit into my skin. I'm comfortable with all of who I am, now, and I keep growing more into my skin every day, being more whole every day. Because of you.”

Sherlock blinked. Beyond John, he could see Harry nodding. His own mother watched John in rapt attention while Mycroft looked like he’d known these things all along. Sherlock realised that he had, too, but he hadn’t really thought about it consciously for a long time. John had always seemed perfect to him, except for the limp, and they’d dealt with that long ago.

John cleared his throat a little, battling down the emotion in it, and spoke again. “You were right not to care if the earth orbits the sun or the other way around. What I know is that you’re the centre of _my_ world. Sherlock, you are _extraordinary_ , heart, mind and soul. You are _amazing_. And for the rest of our days, you’ll know that, for every day that I have breath. I love you with everything I have and am, and you. Are. Amazing.” His face creased in a soft smile and those close enough could see him mouth the words “My honeybee”.

They grinned at each other and their eyes shone.

For a moment Sherlock thought his voice would fail him, but he readjusted his grip on John’s hands. Greg did not have to hand him any speech on paper at all, but he patted Sherlock on the back, a brief, reassuring touch, an encouraging 'go on'.

“Well, John," he said, "All of these people here expect me to say something.” His smile indicated what foolishness existed in that notion. “They expect that there are words to convey who you are to me. But I don’t know any.” He blinked away the prickling in his eyes. “I have so many words and not one is adequate to the task. I would describe you as a miracle, except that everyone knows I am never so sentimental.”

There was a light patter of laughter, except from John, who smiled because he knew Sherlock’s secret: that he could be, at rare times, the sweetest creature on the planet.

“I _can_ say this,” Sherlock continued, “For most of my life, I thought I was broken. Intrinsically wrong, somehow. Your greatest gift has been not to fix me, but to make me realise that I didn't need fixing. Not in the ways that other people thought I did.”

The hush was absolute now. No-one here had ever heard Sherlock speak like this. John was transfixed by those pale eyes, so full of feeling.

Sherlock ignored the silence. He was filled now only with the desire to let everyone know, within his limited ability to describe, the wonder that was John Watson.

“But I have changed, too. As I’ve told you before, we changed everything _together._ We made alchemy and changed each other, for the better. There is one particular gift you brought to my life which was completely unexpected — your repertoire of terrible love songs, which you sing _to me_. Awful, ridiculous love songs. It’s untenable, the degree to which I love hearing them. No one ever tried to be ridiculous with me before you. Certainly no-one ever sang to me before, let alone sang love songs to me. I didn't know I would like it, and I will confess again, in front of witnesses, no less, that I treasure every note of every appalling song.”

He took a breath to calm his thrumming heart before continuing.

“Yesterday, you were humming a melody I didn’t recognise. I had to hum it to Mrs Hudson last night to find out what it was. So I am reliably informed that it was Nat King Cole’s _Unforgettable_. And I agree, John. It’s incredible that someone so unforgettable thinks I’m unforgettable too. So I swear to you, with these witnesses, who will certainly never let me forget that I made this vow, that I will be good to you. I will keep you whole. I will never leave you again. I will retire with you and grow old with you and love you with every thought, every breath, and every day at my command.”

Several people were crying now. Mrs Hudson. Molly. Henry Knight. Sherlock worried briefly that he’d said it all wrong, but John’s face was full of joy and love. Sherlock thought his own might be as well. So that was all right then.

Wendy the Celebrant brought their attention back to the moment with the reminder that the official vows were now to be spoken aloud.

“I call upon these persons here present,” said John first, his voice steady, “To witness that I, John Hamish Watson, take you, Sherlock William Holmes, to be my wedded husband.” He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat did not diminish, as Mike handed him the gold band and he pushed it onto Sherlock’s finger. The sight of it made him lose his breath momentarily.

Sherlock paused for so long before he spoke that some in the audience thought he’d forgotten how to. But John read Sherlock’s eyes. He read the words in his gaze and in his expression and in the way he held his body and the way he breathed before he voiced them.

“I call upon these persons here present,” Sherlock said at last, voice loud and strong, “To witness that I, Sherlock William Holmes, take you, John Hamish Watson, to be my wedded husband.” He held his hand out imperiously for Greg to place the ring in it. Then he held John’s hand and carefully, as though John’s hand was delicate, which it certainly was not, gently pushed the ring into place. Then he stared at it for a little while.

“I now pronounce John and Sherlock husband and husband. Congratulations, gentlemen!” declared Wendy.

The gentlemen in question did not move.

“Sweetpea,” John murmured softly, and Sherlock looked up from the ring on John’s hand, and for the next eternity they simply gazed at each other.

“Well, go on, kiss each other then,” prompted Greg with a laugh.

John reached up to wind his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders as Sherlock bent down, and their mouths met softly as the witnesses cheered and applauded. Someone wolf whistled just as the kiss was deepening, and they both drew back, remembering that they were the centre of attention to others, and not just each other.

As they sat to sign the register and wait while Mike and Greg signed as well, a song, chosen by John, played to keep everyone occupied.

_Our two worlds met in strange surprise_  
_I hid my love in thin disguise_  
_I tried to leave, how could I stay?_  
_What if my heart gave me away?_

_I always thought I’d be prepared_  
_But love just caught me unaware_  
_You said the words and I believe_  
_I fell so hard, I fell so deep_

_Love can’t hide, though it tries_  
_Hearts catch fire; so has mine_  
_Here’s my heart_

Then there was much throwing of rice. Sherlock shook his head impatiently at all of it catching in his curls, and John reached up, laughing to ruffle his hair and shake the grains loose. He was heard to say, “You look fantastic in rice, honeybumble” and Sherlock was heard to reply in affectionately accusatory tones, “Fluffbundle.”

Mrs Hudson’s nephew took the newlyweds, the groomsmen and their families (which included, at John and Sherlock’s insistence, Molly and Mrs Hudson) for photographs while everyone else sauntered across the grass to the Nash Conservatory.

*

In less than an hour, the wedding party was back. Sherlock was not patient with having a hundred photos taken and there was a thing he wanted to do.

Champagne was served, along with lunch. Sherlock hardly ate. He was still rather full of strawberries and the few bites of crepe John had shared with him in the morning. Mostly, Sherlock ate whatever John chose to feed to him at any given moment, and mostly then because he liked the melting look on John’s face when Sherlock sucked crumbs from his fingers.

They cut Mrs Hudson’s magnificent cake, and gave a huge slice of it to Wendy the Celebrant. She was crying. She didn’t even know them and she was crying. Sherlock was tempted to think her a bit daft, but everyone was crying, and John’s eyes were frequently suspiciously bright, and his own got a bit blurry from time to time, so he figured she was at least in good company, or at least that they’d _all_ gone feeble in the head.

Sherlock had never been so happy in his life. John leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I’ve never been this happy, sweetheart. My honeyjoy. Beautiful boy. _Husband_.”

In reply, Sherlock held John’s face in his hands and kissed him until Greg threw a bread roll at them and told him to let John come up for air. He did, and then John complained that he had plenty of air left, and grabbed Sherlock for another long kiss.

Ridiculous. And perfect.

Speeches were next, and interminable toasts. There were too many of them, in Sherlock’s opinion, even though they weren’t actually abysmal. Mike talked about knowing both John and Sherlock, and that he was giving up his days as a matchmaker, having hit the jackpot this time. Greg’s speech was entertainingly filled with references to crime and murder and the work Sherlock and John had done while going about the business of falling in love.

Harry read a few telegrams which Sherlock thought inane, but they made John laugh, so he let it pass.

At last there was a lull, and he rose.

“Before the dancing begins,” said Sherlock, nodding to Greg as he stepped out from behind the table, “I have a special wedding gift for John.”

Greg had arranged for the violin to be placed beside the piano. He fetched it now and handed the violin and bow to Sherlock.

“John, as I have mentioned, sings to me. Love songs with ridiculous lyrics.” Sherlock paused to smile at John, his expression going soft and sweet. “And he _means_ them. Every silly, wonderful word. In return, I have written a love song for you, John. _About_ you. There are no words, but I hope you will understand what they are anyway.”

With that, he lifted the bow, brought it across the strings and played.

In the audience, Eloise Holmes marvelled at how this music sounded out loud, when performed by her son, compared to how it had seemed on the page. The boldness was there, the hint of swagger, but also such _warmth_. Rapid, sweeping lines that made the heart beat fast with the hint of adventure were followed by low swirls that somehow conveyed comfort and strength. A tumbling downward spiral led to mournful, heartbreaking notes, interspersed with a fractured measure of fear and desperation, the two flowing into and around each other before slowly, tentatively, they met, clashed and then combined again to make something new and beautiful. Then the melody was spiralling up, up, up again, light and sweet and exuberant, full of swagger again, and confidence and optimism.

Sherlock played with his whole body: with hands and fingers, elbows and shoulders, with a toss of his head, with his feet and legs, flowing with the music. His expression reflected the moods of the violin’s journey until the end where he lifted the bow away, arm flung wide like a triumph, yet vulnerable, open, his face shining with ecstasy.

Silence greeted the performance.

Not… what he’d expected.

But John was looking at him across the table, blue eyes wide and brimming.

John rose up to stand on top of his chair. He stepped onto the table, marched across it, jumped lightly down on thto the floor and strode across the floor.  It was, after all, the shortest distance to his honeybee.

Swallowing hard, John wordlessly took the violin and the bow from Sherlock’s hands and passed them to Greg. Then he gazed up into Sherlock’s eyes.

“That’s… _me_?” John’s hands had been as steady as ever, but his voice shook.

Sherlock had said so, but he didn’t begrudge the tremulous wonder in John’s voice. _He spends so much time demonstrating my worth to him. I thought he knew his own to me by now._

“Yes,” he said simply.

Incapable of further speech, John wound his arms around Sherlock, who hugged him back, hard. John turned his face to Sherlock’s neck, burying it there, as Sherlock had so often done when overwhelmed by feeling in a public place. Sherlock held John more tightly still, and kissed his hair.

John found his voice again. “That was beautiful, sweetpea. My god. Honeybee. That was so beautiful,” he said, only for Sherlock’s ear.

“Of course it was,” Sherlock replied, gently scoffing, “It was _you._ And you are _cherished_ , John _."  
_

Applause again. More crying from the people out there. Henry Knight was clinging to Angelo and they were both kind of happy-sobbing, and Molly started kissing Greg enthusiastically for no reason Sherlock could discern, but what did it matter?

It only mattered that John understood what he’d written. His _heart_ in beats and semiquavers and melody, describing John, what John meant to him, what John had suffered and would never suffer again if it was in Sherlock’s power to prevent it.

And John, clinging tight and laughing now, eyes wet against Sherlock’s throat, did understand, so what anyone else thought mattered not at all.

“I think it must be time for our waltz,” said John, pulling back with a damp, joyful face. Then, inexplicably, he nodded at Mycroft.

And inexplicably, Mycroft rose, taking sheets of music from his jacket pocket, and strode towards the piano.

“What…?” Sherlock began.

“He asked to,” said John, rubbing a thumb over Sherlock’s jaw. “He wanted to be part of it. He wanted to share in this, to… to _demonstrate_ his care. He’s so rubbish at it normally. I thought it might make a nice change.”

Sherlock stared across the room at his brother, who looked back with an expression that was… hopeful? If anything, Mycroft appeared to be attempting to look open. Not trying to be sarcastic or superior. It looked like his face didn’t know what to do with itself.

Sherlock turned to look at Mummy then, who was watching him with an approving, wistful smile.

He looked back to Mycroft, who appeared now to be uncertain, and that was not an expression he had ever seen on his brother’s face either. Mycroft was waiting for permission to play, and Sherlock hadn’t heard him play for years.

Sherlock took a breath.

Well, if Mycroft wanted to play waltzes for their wedding, why not? In any case, it was mildly amusing that Mycroft had been required to learn the pieces that he and John had chosen for each other.

He nodded once, briefly, sharply, and the tension in Mycroft’s jaw and eyes relaxed.

The first piece began. Sherlock had chosen it for John, after an extensive online search. It was called _Honey and Clover_ and came, apparently, from some Japanese cartoon. The pop version was vile, but the piano version he’d found and then transcribed was short but lovely, and a nice way to ease into the more complex steps they'd rehearsed for second selection.

John held him, and he held John, and they waltzed in the centre of the dance floor, watched by everyone but oblivious to them. They swayed and circled, John leading, and in a few notes the sweet melody changed tempo for the piece John had chosen for Sherlock.

John had trusted to Mycroft to turn an orchestral waltz into something for piano, and Mycroft appeared to have relished the challenge, as he played the waltz from _Murder on the Orient Express_ with increasing gusto.

John laughed as they swirled about the room, this faster paced dance suiting them, with its energy and, yes, a bit of swagger too, and here and there playfulness, and Sherlock laughed with him, and they danced, with the lightest of feet, and the lightest of hearts.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song played as they sign the register is Pat Benetar's Here's My Heart, from the soundtrack to Metropolis.
> 
> The waltz Honey and Clover is from the anime of the same name, and [here is a sweet piano version of it.](http://youtu.be/5IjpEgXAK7I)
> 
> Here is an orchestral rendition of Richard Bennett's [Waltz from Murder on the Orient Express](http://youtu.be/S-F2weX-ZKI) but I also like this[cute live version with piano and viola.](http://youtu.be/1bTJNHjbfRM)


	6. Timetable: Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the wedding, John and Sherlock have a bath at their wedding night hotel, and discuss the unforgettable. June has haunted them, as well as given its blessing. Some things they can't forget will always throw a shadow, but it's all right, because whatever was past, it led here. To these best of times. (Also - consummation of the marriage!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming to the wedding! I hope you all had a lovely time. You've been lovely guests. Enjoy the cake. Take a bottle of champers (non alcoholic if that's your preference) and share a toast sometime to this lovely English June day.

Sherlock stood in the centre of the insanely large wedding suite for a moment, simply savouring the return of calm. John was in the even more insanely large en suite, running a bath. Neither of them needed to bathe again, but John was gleefully insistent that a bath was just the ticket after the excitement of the day – the perfect way to conclude their celebrations.

Soap bubbles and a cuddle, he’d said, stripping off with astonishing rapidity, then he’d hummed a bit and waltzed himself into the bathroom.

John was drunk, Sherlock noted, but not _very_. Drunk-John was entertaining, Sherlock decided, being in turns solemn and giddily happy. He kept gazing at Sherlock with utter devotion, then picking yet more grains of rice from his curls and calling him Petal.

“Sweetpea!” John called from the bathroom, “Honeybunch! Sherlock! _Husband_!” The last was shouted with gleeful triumph, “You should see this bath. It’s like a bloody swimming pool! S’gonna take _hours_ to fill the bloody thing!”

“There’s a second set of taps, John,” Sherlock called back.

“Ha! Right you are! Bloody genius. This bath. You. My genius. My precious Consulting Snugglebear! **My! Husband**!”

Sherlock smiled at John’s continued delight at saying the word. Sherlock tried it out. “John Watson,” he said quietly, “My husband.”

The syllables made a wonderful shape with his lips and tongue. Despite the fact that it could not possibly be so, the words had a _flavour_. Spicy, sweet, rich, perfect.

Sherlock finished hanging his trousers and jacket, then tossed his waistcoat and shirt over the back of the chair on which John’s clothes already lay.

He walked into the en suite in his pants and leaned on the door frame, watching John. John had his feet in the tub which was filling rapidly with hot water and soap bubbles. John grinned at him, boyish and mightily pleased with himself.

“Hello, _husband._ ”

His sheer exuberance pulled an answering smile from Sherlock. “Hello, yourself, _husband_ ,” he returned.

Sherlock hadn’t thought it possible that John’s expression could become more jubilant, but it did. Sherlock leaned over to kiss him, and John tilted his face up and puckered his lips, waiting. The kiss was surprisingly gentle, and Sherlock thought it perfect. Like every other kiss that day. Like every kiss preceding it or, indeed, that would follow.

“The brooch,” said Sherlock when he drew back. He’d noticed it immediately when he’d first seen John before the walk down the aisle. Well, immediately after he’d noticed the light of relief and joy in John’s eyes. The item was now on the bedside table, placed carefully there by John during one of his solemn phases.

“Mm-hmm?” John grinned at him, waiting confidently for the deduction.

“The clasp was new, but the brooch is old. Good quality, but not extravagant. More of sentimental value. A simple design. Elegant. A woman’s piece rather than a man’s. A gift from Harry, in the old tradition. Something old, something new, and so on. It belonged to your mother.”

“Mum wore it at her own wedding.”

“And Harry to hers?”

“Yes.”

“Harry and Clara left together,” Sherlock pointed out, “Harry still sober.”

John nodded. “Yeah.”

Sherlock cupped John’s cheek in his hand and ran his thumb along John’s cheekbone. At the end, when they were farewelling their guests before leaving to make their afternoon check-in at their hotel, Harry had leaned over to him and whispered in Sherlock’s ear:

“If I ever see him in that much pain again because of you, I’m going to hunt you down and break every bone in your body.”

Sherlock had glanced sideways at John then, who was glowing with happiness and champagne and hugging weepy Mrs Hudson, and replied: “If I am ever responsible for hurting him like that again, I will come to you personally and bring the hammer.”

Harry nodded, shook his hand and moved on to hug her brother.

Sherlock gazed at John on the rim of the bathtub now, with those brilliant blue eyes closed and a beatific smile on his face as he enjoyed the soft touch.

“Did I tell you,” John said suddenly, “What your mother said?”

“No.” Sherlock had heard it though.

“She said that she was glad to know that you could be happy. That someone in the world _could_ make you happy, and she was glad you had me.” John opened his eyes again. “No offense, but your mother’s a bit of an idiot.”

Sherlock blinked. His mother had a genius IQ as high as Mycroft’s. Of course, Sherlock had heard the whole exchange, including John’s calm but firm reply to his mother’s declaration.

“Sherlock’s not some alien creature who’s impossible to please, you know,” Sherlock’s new husband had said sternly, “You could try harder. You don’t have to leave making him happier for **other** people. You loved William and made _him_ happy, after all. You can make Sherlock happy too, if you make the effort.”

Mummy had been surprised that someone would speak to her like that. But she had nodded, as though taking on board an interesting new theory. When she’d gone to her son, she had hugged him and said softly, “Your husband is smarter than I am.”

Sherlock agreed with her. John was sometimes smarter than _everybody._

“You Holmeses can be a bit thick about some things,” John continued.

“We can.” Sherlock agreed.

“So can us Watsons. But we sort ourselves out in the long run.”

“Do you?” Sherlock teased gently.

“Yeah.” John’s face split into yet another broad grin. “Come into the bath with me, blossom, and let me wash your back and massage your hands, and I can see another bit of rice there, petal. Let me cuddle you, freckle. My precious, precious boy…” John had tipped back into solemnity, despite the silly names, his expression intent as though he was desperate to convey the depth of his love, “My honeysuckle. Honeybee. My forever bee, my beautiful husband, my, mine, mine…”

Sherlock kissed John again, not to stop the names, but to taste them, to take them from John’s tongue onto his own. With a little _mmpph_ of pleasure, John reached up to hold Sherlock’s face and this kiss was much deeper, and much longer, than the last.

When he was able to make himself step away, Sherlock shed his pants and stepped into the warm water. John turned off the taps, then practically swam to the other side of the tub – it really was stupidly large – and held his arms wide.

John, obscured from the waist down by the foamy water, his hair and lashes sticking together in damp clumps, smiling, looked wonderfully like the merman Sherlock had once dreamed him to be. Merman-John had saved Sherlock from drowning. A metaphor, of course. John had saved him from many things, from the start. Perhaps even John didn’t know how very often and how very profoundly he had saved Sherlock.

Sherlock crouched down and half swam over to John, turning and settling into John’s arms, against his chest.

“That’s my kitten,” John said, kissing his neck. Then he grabbed a huge sponge from the edge of the tub and rubbed it down Sherlock’s arms.

Sherlock leaned back, head on John’s left shoulder, the one that bore the scar, and closed his eyes. John held him close with an arm around his waist and sponged Sherlock’s arm, shoulders and torso from behind. Sherlock stretched his neck – John took the opportunity to bathe the offered skin with loving strokes – and kissed John under his jaw. Beside his ear. On his neck. John turned his face so their mouths met and continued to bathe his husband with the hand now adorned by a ring.

“Traditionally,” said Sherlock with only a little reserve, ever-so-faintly apologetic, “Wedding nights are consummated when the newlywed couple makes love...”

John kept bathing him, but there was a still quality in him, too. Sherlock shifted slightly to look into John’s eyes and realised his error.

“Ah. We _are_ making love.”

“We are,” agreed John contentedly, kissing Sherlock’s brow.

Sherlock took John’s right hand in his and raised it to kiss John’s knuckles and finger. He turned John’s hand to kiss the palm and wrist.

“You once said you would rather be celibate and unkissed and with me than having sex with anyone else,” he said.

“Mmm.” John swept the sponge down Sherlock’s ribs and then let it go. The sponge sank away and John instead rested his hand on Sherlock’s waist under the water. Undemanding, anchoring.

“You will never spend a day unkissed, John. Not while I breathe.”

“My beautiful boy. My amazing honeybumble,” John murmured against Sherlock’s temple. He paused and then raised his left hand to chase another grain of rice from Sherlock’s hair. That done, his fingers carded through the curls. He had grown solemn again. He kissed and kissed Sherlock’s temple and brow, and his fingers stroked through Sherlock’s hair, against his skull, in a pattern that Sherlock knew well.

John’s other hand dropped below the water too, and touched scars where he could reach them. The new scars, not so new anymore. A flat, shiny scar from a burning barn in Provence. The dent of a screwdriver once stabbed into his thigh. The lines of three knife wounds on chest and ribs.

Sherlock turned his head on John’s scarred shoulder again and burrowed his nose against John’s throat, comfort and apology in one. John kissed his forehead, his hands still roaming softly over Sherlock’s scalp and body. But Sherlock could tell by the movement of muscle in John’s throat that his husband was smiling.

“You're happy,” he observed, although the words lilted up at the end, a sort of question.

“Yes I am, sweetheart.”

“Even though you can't forget.”

“Even though,” John said, “Any more than you can. I heard what you and Harry said to each other, you know.”

John carded his fingers through Sherlock's damp curls, over the place that had once been masked in blood. 

Three years ago.

Not to the day, but certainly to the month.

That June, three years ago, in which Sherlock had died before John’s eyes, in order to save him. Three years ago, Sherlock had done a terrible thing, for which John suffered, and for which Sherlock suffered, for one long year, and longer still.

And now, this June day, their urgency to marry – that separation anxiety they'd both experienced on leaving Baker Street – was as much due to the lingering darkness of that past spring as it was to their eagerness to declare, in front of witnesses and to each other,  _together forever_ and also _never again_.

Sherlock turned in John’s arms, bathwater and bubbles sloshing over the rim of the tub, so that his chest was pressed to John’s and he could bury his face in John’s throat, and John wouldn’t see him so suddenly sad on their wedding day. His own hand was in John’s hair now, rubbing against his skull, which in waking dreams and debilitating nightmares Sherlock had seen, again and again, reduced to unthinking, unfeeling meat and bone by a sniper’s bullet; his best friend, his love, his John, murdered, if he had for one moment failed in his mission to end Moriarty’s madness.

John wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock’s shoulders. “It's all right sweetpea. You've taken it back. I told you.”

“But I can't take it away.”

“No. But...” John put a finger under Sherlock’s chin and made him look up.

To Sherlock’s surprise, John didn’t look sad, or lost, or hurt. He looked concerned, perhaps, his blue eyes bright and warm with compassion, but he was smiling as though he’d recently had a revelation.

“Maybe you shouldn't try,” said John, “Maybe everything that happened was what we needed, to bring us _here_. _Together_ , like this.” He kissed Sherlock’s nose and, though puzzled, Sherlock felt the sorrow lifting. John’s air of acceptance, not resigned but contented, lifted it away.

“It’s like my old scar,” explained John, “I wouldn't have wished for getting shot, but ultimately it put me in your path, and I _love_ this life I have now. I love this life I have with _you_. And I love you more than I thought it was possible to love anything in the world. So whatever it cost me then, I can’t regret it now. I gained so much more than I lost, Sherlock, when what happened to me brought me to you. With a little help from Mike, obviously.”

“But...”

“So. Yes, we suffered, but we at least made _use_ of the suffering to get _here_. Now we have _new_ memories, just as we planned,” Because, indeed, a June wedding was no coincidence. They had discussed it, decided on it together, in defiance of that older, wounding memory. “We can't make it not have happened, but we can make it less important.  And we did that.  Today was perfect, Sherlock. Honeybee. My amazing husband.” John grinned as he said the word again. 

“My husband,” Sherlock echoed, and his smile came back, “John. My John. Mine. Forever.”

“Yours forever,” agreed John, and they kissed again, tender and urgent at once.

Because all that fear and sorrow of the past was overlaid with this happiness. No, they couldn't make the past not be. They couldn't forget what they had lost and suffered. But they also had this to never forget. They had survived, and found their way back to each other. They had found this joy in each other.

And the knowledge of joy was stronger than the memory of loss, because it was here and it was now. They might still have bad dreams, but they would forever wake to the reality _of John and Sherlock_. Together, for the rest of their lives.

Sherlock mouth left John’s at last, only to kiss a trail down his throat and across his chest to the scar on John’s shoulder. Sherlock pressed his lips to the puckered skin in a way he rarely did – reverently. With gratitude.

“Hey, sweetpea. It’s all right. Everything’s better than all right.”

Sherlock knelt in the water, wrapped his arms around John’s waist and pulled his husband into his lap in order to resume kissing him, and John happily obliged. Sherlock wound his arms around John’s torso and held him close, closer, closer still, while John buried his hands in Sherlock’s dark hair.

“Please,” Sherlock murmured against John’s ear between kisses, “I want to take you to bed, John. I want to keep making better memories. I want you say those names I love. I want to kiss you and touch you and I want you to come with my hands on you.”

“Yes,” John murmured at each request, “Yes, baby. Oh god, yes. Please. Yes.”

John rose first and held his hands out to Sherlock, who took them as he stood in the tub. Water cascaded off them, mermen both, shedding sorrows.

They grabbed the giant, soft towels, and they laughed, like they had that morning, in their inefficient attempts to dry one another off. Hair still damp, water still clinging randomly (to a shin, to the small of a back, between toes, in the hollow of a throat) they returned to the bedroom and clambered onto the bed.

Sherlock’s hands gently insisted that John lay on his back, then they kissed for a while. John’s cock was hard against Sherlock’s belly but neither bothered about that while the kiss lasted. All in good time. There was no hurry.

Then Sherlock kissed and licked John’s throat, his sternum, his belly. He kissed John’s scar, and his nipples. He burrowed his nose into John’s armpits and licked there until John giggled and Sherlock had to stop to pull blond hairs from his tongue. Laughing, he stretched back up so that their mouths could meet again, hot and passionate, yet languid. No demands were made; they only relished their joy in the moment.

Then Sherlock’s mouth began to descend with steady intent and John subjected his body to his will, holding as still as he could.

Sherlock kissed John’s flushed cock, down the shaft, briefly against the sticky, leaking crown, underneath, over John’s balls and perineum. With his long hands, Sherlock helped to hold John’s legs wide and he kissed and licked John’s hole while John, breathless and keening, held his quivering legs and hips down to the mattress, his desire building with his restraint.

Sherlock moved again, holding John’s cock with his right hand as he licked it, base to crown, again and again. He lapped at the hot, sticky head and hummed with pleasure at John’s pleasure.

John reached down, grasped Sherlock’s left hand, and Sherlock paused as he watched John lift Sherlock’s hand to his mouth. Watched as John kissed the finger that bore the gold ring.

“I want…” gasped John, “Baby, can I?” John closed his mouth over Sherlock’s ring finger and sucked tentatively on it. “Please,” John asked again, voice a moan, “Please.”

“Show me,” said Sherlock hoarsely, and John sucked Sherlock’s finger into his mouth, fellated it, his tongue swirling around the ring itself, over Sherlock’s finger. John whimpered his delight at being allowed. He suckled and sucked, the gold ring tapping occasionally against his teeth, which only made him lick and suck the harder.

A shuddering moan escaped Sherlock. “Tell me,” he said, voice shaking, “When you’re going to come.”

“Mmmm,” assented John, around his mouthful.

With the glorious pull of John’s mouth on his finger, Sherlock bent to lick and kiss and lick and lick and lick, lapping up the pre-cum that pooled and spilled from John’s slit, his hand firm and moving around the shaft, slowly at first then faster, tongue and hand keeping pace, until John gasped and momentarily pulled Sherlock’s hand away from his own busy tongue.

“Oh, god, baby, sweetpea, ho-ho-hon-ey-ey…”

Sherlock at once scooted over John’s body, kneeling astride him, and kissed him, hard, so that John could taste himself in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s hand moved firm, fast, slippery, over John’s cock in the heated space between them. He stopped kissing long enough to whisper urgently, “Move, John. Move for me. Please. John. Move.”

John moved, meeting each stroke of Sherlock’s hand with a thrust, and Sherlock sealed their mouths together again, and John buried his free hand in Sherlock’s hair and then he came, groaning into Sherlock’s mouth and then gasping and shuddering while Sherlock eased him back from his orgasm with careful strokes, and kissed and kissed his face.

Then Sherlock kneeled astride John’s thighs, skin flushed, eyes dilated.

“What do you need, sweetheart?” John said between happy, heaving breaths.

“Your hand,” said Sherlock, and took John’s left hand in his right. Sherlock wrapped his own left hand around his erection, then placed John’s left over the top of it. Their rings glinted soft gold in the afternoon sunlight through the window.

John rested his hand there, not guiding the pace but simply following the one set by Sherlock, undemanding but _there_ , with him.

“Sweetheart,” John said as Sherlock’s gaze locked with his, and Sherlock’s hand (with John’s pressed over it) moved over his slick shaft, “Blossom. My beautiful boy. Precious, precious sweetpea. Freckle. Pickle. Oh, sunshine, sunny sunflower, my honeybee. Cupcake, kitten, lollipop, my snugglebear, honeysuckle, god, I love you. Look at you, my gorgeous boy. _Habibi. Petit cheri, petit chou. Amore mio. Tesoro._ _Mein Gummibärchen. Biene. Liebling. Lucero. Corazoncito._ My heart. My husband...”

“ _John.”_

“Sherlock. _Yes_. Beautiful. You’re so beautiful. That’s it, sweetheart, that’s…”

Sherlock arched, his shout as he came over their joined hands softening to a spent and blissful sigh. His controlled collapse led him to press his nose against John’s cheek while he puckered dizzy kisses near and sometimes even on John’s skin.

“Sweetheart,” John murmured, “Can I hold you now? It’s not too much?”

For an answer, Sherlock sagged completely against John’s body, heedless of his weight. John didn’t seem to mind. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back and held him close, kissing his hair.

After a few minutes, when John began to wheeze slightly, Sherlock wriggled to one side then let momentum drag him down to the mattress on the right, still half over John’s body. John nuzzled Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock tucked his nose into John’s throat, enjoying the warmth and sensation of John’s steady pulse.

John groped around the bed but, not finding a T-shirt or flannel, settled on the top sheet to wipe them as clean as he could then shove the sticky sheet away. He wrestled slightly with the rest of the bedding to pull it up over their shoulders before settling again.

A minute later, Sherlock felt a slight tremor vibrate through John’s chest.

“You’re thinking of a song,” Sherlock accused gently.

“I am,” confessed John through a grin, “It’s really terrible. Worse than all the others put together.”

“My god,” said Sherlock in not quite mock horror, “It must be unspeakable. Sing it!”

“ _My boy lollipop_ ,” sang John, “ _You make my heart go giddy-up. You are as sweet as candy. You are my sugar dandy._ ” He stopped singing in order to give rein to giggles.

Sherlock tried to smother his laugh against John’s skin. “That is truly awful.”

“I know a better one,” said John, “The most beautiful love song ever written.”

“Well, now, I have to hear this one.”

And John began to hum the main theme of Sherlock’s violin solo from the wedding lunch. John managed most of the refrain before he faltered, but by then Sherlock had taken it up, humming the melody of his love song for John, stretching his neck up so the notes and Sherlock’s breath mingled against John’s ear.

“Love you,” said John sleepily, “Husband.” He giggled a bit more in his delight.

“I love you, too,” said Sherlock, “Wife.”

They both giggled at that, though John poked Sherlock in the ribs. Then he patted those same ribs. “I can be the wife. I was a lovely bride.”

“Even if you didn’t throw a bouquet.”

“I threw Greg the arrangement from our table. That counts.”

“Fluffbundle,” said Sherlock, in his warmest, most affectionate tone, “You are a superb husband.” He savoured the taste of the word again. “My husband.”

“Mmm,” said John.

Sherlock snuggled close, his arm across John’s chest, underneath the sheets and blankets. Out of sight, he clasped John’s left hand in his right, both laid over John’s heart. Sherlock didn’t need to see their joined hands. He felt them. Felt the ring on John’s finger against his skin, and was aware of the band on his own.

Nothing would be forgotten. Not the worst of times, but not the good times those bad times had wrought either. These _best_ of times: both of them alive, both safe, both wrapped up with warmth and acceptance and love and wholeness that neither had ever believed possible.

These unforgettable, _wonderful_ times.

Sherlock did not sleep for a long while. Instead, as John drifted into a contented post-coital afternoon nap in Sherlock’s arms, Sherlock stayed awake to listen to John breathing beside him, as he sometimes did now.

Just because he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The June dates referenced here come from John's blog. Yes, I know show-canon dates are all over the shop. So are mine, come to that.


End file.
